


Wedding Favor

by Cocohorse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Dancing, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My best friend — her name’s Meena — is having a wedding on the thirtieth. I was wondering, sorta, if you’d want to come with me?”</p><p>It's not that easy finding a wedding date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding Favor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PurpleBunny444](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleBunny444/gifts).



> For my friend's 18th birthday. I hope I did your ship justice. Thanks to my Tumblr friend for making sure that I was using British vernacular, not American, haha.

On the small, wooden desk laid an envelope, hastily torn at its thin, flowery edges. It was empty of the card it had held carefully inside itself, losing it to the hands of a young pathologist. The nails were delicately painted with a light shade of pink on the tips — interesting, considering the dirty business that those hands were involved in. The card itself stayed in the hands for about a minute as it was silently read, and then it was placed back down on the desk in a bit-too-quick fashion that disturbed the other piles of papers on the desk.

“Oh, Meena,” sighed the mortician.

She slumped deeper into the thick, plush chair sitting low on the ground, the card and the envelope disappearing from her sight as she stared up at the low ceiling of her flat. She should really get it remodeled, she thought drearily, her mind wandering. The chipping white paint had to be some sort of health hazard. But money wasn’t too good at the moment. How could she afford to get the ceiling fixed if she could barely spare enough change to buy a new dress for Meena’s wedding?

She curled onto her side and reached languidly for her phone laying flat on the thin carpeted floor. She slid the screen open and tapped through her contacts list before dialing.

“Molly, hi! Did you get it?” came Meena’s voice through the other side of the line.

“Hey, Meena. Yeah, I did, actually, just now.” Molly blinked and smiled a little as she listened to her enthusiastic friend. Out of uni, Meena had been her closest friend for many years. “I’m — I’m happy for you and Danny.”

“Thanks. I’m happy, too.” Meena laughed a bit. “Do you think you can come?”

Molly breathed in and sighed softly. “I’ll try, I will.”

“You better.”

The smile on her face cracked wider. It was nice to feel wanted. How could she not be there for her friend? “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she finally said, and that was a promise to Meena and herself.

“Good.” Meena was obviously relieved. “I’ll be looking for you, first thing. Be on time, and don’t forget to bring a date.”

Molly stirred in her chair. She paused, repeating over what she had just heard in her head, and then she let out an involuntary, disbelieving laugh. “Sorry, a date? Am I talking to Meena?”

“Yeah, why not?” Words spilled out from over the line, insistently pressing at her. “Aren’t you with Jim? Or Tom?”

“Jim, god, that was ages ago,” muttered Molly, rubbing her face to block out the memories. “And Tom and I broke up the engagement a long time ago, too.” She and Meena didn’t talk much lately. Meena was too busy with some high-end hospital far away, while Molly still had her cadavers to contend to.

“Oh, Molly, no.” Voice soft, Meena’s enthusiasm drooped a little bit. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Molly told her, feigning complete nonchalance, and she shrugged to herself. “Our personalities didn’t really click, you know. He was pretty irresponsible. I couldn’t deal with that.”

“Molly, you’ve always been much better than him,” muttered Meena, ending with a muffled laugh. Molly wouldn’t have been surprised if her friend’s eyes were rolling. “You’ve got a PhD, chrissakes. And you’re pretty, too. You can do with someone smarter and better-looking. Oh, _hey_ , do you still have a thing for the detective?”

Molly tensed up, surprised. “Sherlock? No, him?” Did her friend really remember him? Not that Molly could blame her. No one would forget such an intelligent, lovely _arse_.

“Yes, him!” It was as if Meena was putting pieces of a puzzle together. It was apparent that a plan was quickly forming in the back of her mind. “He’s always been single, right? Now you are, too!”

Did she not know how to hint?

Molly groaned and fell back deeper into her chair. She pushed away the loose hair strands falling across her face and let out a long, weary sigh into the phone. “Just because he’s single,” she flatly muttered under her breath, “doesn’t mean that he has any interest at all. In fact, he seems more interested with the dead people I work with rather than me. And whatever, anyways. It’s no big deal. Don’t make it one.”

“But, Molly, now you have an actual reason to ask him out!” Meena’s voice rose in excitement. She was insistent. “And for all he knows, you could just be asking him out as a friend — which is totally fine, by the way. But I’d love to see you with someone at my wedding. Come on, Molly. It’ll be fun. What’ve you got to lose?”

“Please, Meena. Don’t be silly. Let me have at least a little dignity.”

“Hey,” said Meena. “Being a little reckless is all part of the fun. So what if he says no? Then you’re back to where you were before. And if he’s as much of a dolt as you say he is, he wouldn’t give it a second thought. Nothing gained nor lost.”

Molly was unconvinced. “He’s probably busy, anyway.” It was an excuse, but it was probably true, too. She didn’t want to bother anyone or be an inconvenience.

“A detective’s gotta go out once in awhile.”

“Look, well, he’s not just _a_ detective. He doesn’t ‘go out.’ Especially not now, when he’s currently occupied with some - some case.”

“Okay, stop,” came Meena’s voice, hardening. “Don’t start digging yourself into a hole before anything’s even begun.”

“Nothing’s beginning,” said Molly shortly, letting out a huff. She was becoming slightly frustrated. “I’m just stating the facts.”

“Facts, huh.”

“What?” protested Molly, easily sensing the disbelief in her friend’s words. “You don’t -”

“ _Molly_ ,” said Meena, her tone suddenly gentler. She sounded as if she was trying a different approach. A more honest approach. “I get that you don’t think you’re good enough, or something, but you _are_. This guy seems good. And while I’m getting married, I also want you, as my friend, to have fun with another person — even if it’s just for a day.”

Molly fell silent, breath caught in her throat as she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Her friend only wanted to make sure she was going to have a bit of fun. How could she be upset at her friend when her intentions were only good? God, she appreciated her friend, but no one seemed to realize how hard it would be to talk to Sherlock.

“You there?” asked Meena tentatively.

Molly blinked and shook her head, stirring from her thoughts. She swallowed and responded, “Yeah,” sounding tired.

Meena’s enthusiasm grew softer as she reacted to Molly’s change of attitude. “You can ask him easily. It’s a little, harmless question. ‘Hey, my… friend’s having a wedding, do you want to come with me?’ That’s it, Molly.” Meena’s light sigh rose and fell in finality. “You’ll never know unless you _ask_.”

Her chest tugged. Who cared, _right?_ She was becoming a little hopeful, or a little mad, maybe both. And it was a combination of weakness and strength that she finally sighed and muttered, “Okay, okay,” to the thrilled reaction of her friend. This was simply for the wedding, her _best friend’s_. This was simply a formal event, and bringing a partner to it was a technical, casual thing, nothing more.

After all, this was about Meena’s and Danny’s relationship, not about the one — if there _was_ one — between the pathologist and Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

The detective himself was standing over a fresh dish of bacteria, peering with bright, studying eyes at the scattered signs of colony growth across the sticky, bacterial surface. He was so focused on the sample that he didn’t even notice her closing the heavy door behind her and making the way to his lab table. At least, well, he didn’t give any sign of noticing her. Most likely, she thought as her heart sunk, he simply didn’t want to initiate a conversation with her.

Her fingers, its nails newly painted with another layer of pink polish, dug deeper into the sides of her thighs. No, don’t back away now. She trailed around the edges of his table, pretending to be as interested in the strewn papers and experiments as he was with the petri dish in his hands.

“You clearly have something to say,” murmured Sherlock, without turning his eyes away from his dish, “Say it, then.”

Frozen and startled, she asked, sweeping her gaze around the room, “How’s the, uh, case going? Any new developments?”

Sherlock blinked slowly, seeming to refrain himself from letting out a disappointed sigh. Instead, he replied, “I’m currently testing a sample of Miss Mariannes’ blood. I suspect that there’s been some foul play involving ricin.”

She cleared her voice quietly and spoke up. “Ricin’s very difficult to identify, though, isn’t it?” Molly looked from the sample to his face, so still and concentrated.

“Only if you don’t know what you’re looking for,” he told her breezily, his eyebrows raised in a slightly haughty manner. “ _I_ do. If I’m correct, there will be exponential bacterial growth, more than quadruple the non-transformed amount I started with, in the next twenty minutes.” His hands carefully lowered the dish on to the table, and his piercing, knowing eyes swiveled over to her.

“Now,” said Sherlock, tone musing as he rose his head slowly, “Why does it seem like you still have something to say?”

Her stomach clenched up with fear, and it suddenly felt like she was mute. Damn, she still liked him, she guessed. She ducked her head down, trying to ignore the electricity in his burning blue-green eyes. A quick, empty smile flashed across her reddening face as it lifted up to meet his gaze. “Yes, ah, actually -”

“Knew it,” muttered Sherlock, his attitude dismissive.

Her fidgeting, antsy hands had the sudden urge to grab his collar and shake the sense out of the man. What an insensitive, pretentious prick. Why did she ever even like him?

“They say that silence speaks louder than words,” drawled Sherlock, returning his attention to the bacteria, “I digress. When someone speaks, it’s not just their blabbering mouth that’s moving about. It’s also their eyes, their hands, their posture. Maybe they’re looking away, hiding something from their words. Maybe they’re grasping at the ends of their t-shirt, wringing out the corners like it’s drenching wet with water when it’s as dry as can be. Maybe they’re leaning, as if the table’s their only support in the conversation. It’s all in the delivery, you see. And I’m here explaining this, quickly as you may have noticed, _obviously_ wanting this conversation to end so that I can get back to work.”

She didn’t know what she had expected, but she wasn’t exactly surprised with his response. Still, his curtness stung. Her own practiced words suddenly fell away, and her head was left spinning and reeling. God, she would’ve thought, after all they've been through these past few years, that he’d have learned to be nicer. Apparently not. He probably threw it out of his memory palace once she was no longer of use to him since his faked death. She felt a tinge of anger blossoming in her flushed cheeks. Maybe he hadn't changed, but she had.

“You don’t have to be so mean.”

He turned abruptly to her, bacteria completely moved to the side. “Do you really call that _mean_?” he inquired loftily, his voice playing like a hum on the cello. It was not a lovely tune. “I’m only saying the truth. Adjectives don’t change the reality of it.”

She fought back the trembling mix of emotions that threatened to rise up from her. “Can’t I just ask a simple question?” she returned adamantly, nearly breaking into an indignant cry.

For a long moment, Sherlock peered at her, eyes flickering as he read her face. Demeanor guarded and more withdrawn, he dropped his hands to the table and slowly drummed on the surface as he mumbled, “Go ahead, then.”

She was shaken, but she wasn’t going to let her fear overwhelm her. Fear had delayed her from asking him for the past week or so, but now, as the date grew closer, she had to act quickly.

“My best friend — her name’s Meena — is having a wedding on the thirtieth. I was wondering, sorta, if you’d want to come with me? It’ll - it’ll be for most of the day.”

Without skipping a beat, he let out a sharp intake of breath and simply said, “No, thanks.”

She was too shocked to notice the pounding in her head. “Wh - why not?” she stammered out, crossing her arms tightly across her hammering chest.

He was unperturbed. “I’m much too busy then.” He shook his head, black curls bouncing, as if trying to get rid of an irritating fly. “I’ve got cases going on. The criminals of London don’t sleep, Molly. People don’t stop dying just for a few hours of dry cake, boring speeches, and sweaty dancing.” There was obviously distaste in his voice.

He probably would’ve ranted some more, but he suddenly stared down at the dish and frowned. Something was off.

“Why aren’t the bacteria growing?” he muttered to himself, bothered and upset. “They’re flourescent, so they _have_ been transformed, and yet they’re not _growing_.”

Molly’s heart was sinking quickly in shame down her throat. Why did she even do this? Sherlock didn’t even _care_. He was already back to his infuriating, trivial experiments, having discarded her.

“Did you use that solution for the bacteria?” she questioned hesitantly, motioning awkwardly at blue test tube beside him. “That - that doesn’t work. Not at room temperature, anyways. It denatures the proteins in the bacteria.”

Sherlock’s gaze shot up, and his face was shadowed in surprise and confusion. “Sorry?”

Her throat felt tight, but the words still flowed out of her mouth like an incessant river. “The solution — it’ll make the bacteria glow, but it won’t let it grow unless it’s at, like, er, eighteen degrees.”

“I see.” He blinked, wires seemingly running back and forth behind his blank stare. A second passed, and he turned back down to his experiment, present company forgotten.

Stomach churning, Molly saw she was no longer needed to be in the room for another moment. She didn’t protest. The air was suffocating and sucked of warmth. It was closing in on her fast, and she needed to get out to breathe. Like a mindless, stumbling zombie, her fluttering footsteps carried her past the tables and experiments and out of the room.

She quickly shut the lab door behind her, nerves flying. Her hand lingered on the steel handle, its cold surface becoming warm from her burning, clammy grip. There she stood in the middle of the empty hallway, lurching on the door and trying to catch her breath as her mind whirled with hurt.

 

* * *

 

A purr rumbled through Toby’s body. He was enjoying the soft massage of Molly’s absent-minded fingers behind his furry ears, paying no attention to his owner’s quiet conversation on the phone.

“No, no, he didn’t. He said no,” admitted Molly half-heartedly, looking over at Toby as she spoke.

There was a gasp on the other line. “ _No._ He actually _did?_ ”

“He said he was busy. He’s always on the job.” It sounded like Molly was apologizing for him.

“I can’t believe it.”

Molly held in a sigh. She didn’t have the energy to argue. She had already spent it all lying around in her flat all day.

Meena was petulant, adamant. Whereas Molly took nearly everything that came to her, Meena always got up and fought. “I can’t _believe_ it,” she repeated, evidently growing upset. “Dead people aren’t _bloody_ going anywhere. God, no offense, but what a complete _wanker_.”

“Yeah,” said Molly, idly watching Toby roll his head onto her lap.

For a while, Meena continued to berate “the insufferable Sherlock Holmes,” but Molly was only half-listening. It felt like she was sitting underwater, hearing only muffled voices above her head. But she didn’t care enough to swim up and listen. She just wanted to stay alone, surrounded by constant water and nothing else. None of this was new.

“Are you okay, though?”

Toby’s green eyes opened and stared up at Molly when her fingers stopped scratching.

“I’m just a little upset, I guess. But I’m fine.” Molly knew she _was_ fine, but somehow her whole body still felt like she was stuck underwater, movement slow, breathing nonexistent. She straightened in her chair, shifting Toby from her lap, and said, “You know, it’s pretty late. I’ll feel better after sleeping.”

“Oh, okay, yeah.” Meena sounded disappointed by the lack of conversation, but she understood that Molly needed some space. “Talk to you later, then.”

“See you,” said Molly quietly, and then her phone shut off.

She lifted Toby off of her lap, shushing his defiant mews as she stood up. She didn’t feel like sleeping just yet, and she knew if she got into bed, she would just be laying there thinking all night. Might as well do something else to get her mind off of things, as hard as it was. Rejection was not something new to her, and yet it still stung as hard as the first time.

Toby curled around her legs, his paws tapping the marble floor of the kitchen they were now in. He scampered away, however, when she opened the door of the fridge, releasing the icy air into her face. Her eyes closed shut for a moment as she stood still in front of the open fridge, the whirring of its mechanics drowning out the quiet, moonless night. She took in a cold breath, trying to loosen her tightened shoulders.

She finally closed the door of the fridge after picking up a plate with two slices of leftover cheese pizza, which she then placed into the microwave. After thumbing in the timer and pressing start, she stood back and looked down at Toby, who was sitting on his haunches and staring expectantly back up at her. After thinking about her failed interaction with Sherlock ever since this afternoon, she had forgotten some of her chores at home.

“You’re hungry, too, boy?” she asked, her voice a bit deflated.

His tail rose happily in the air when she took out a can of cat food from inside the pantry. The metal lid peeled off easily, and she laid the can down on the floor and leaned back while her cat tiptoed over and began licking at his meal. The microwave had beeped, meanwhile, so she went over and drew the steaming pizza out using a thin, cotton towel, which barely absorbed the heat. As she began to carefully carry the plate to the table, she looked down for Toby, but he was no longer eating his food, which still remained in the can.

She was a bit surprised to see him on top of the kitchen counter instead, fur spiked up and ears slightly drawn back. Coming over, she placed the pizza and towel down on the side as Toby continued to stand his ground in front of the vibrating phone on the counter.

“ _Excuse_ me.”

Silly cat. How easy would being a cat be? Free scratches, free food, free bed. A little smile tugged at the end of her mouth. As she ran a hand over his head, she glanced down at her buzzing phone.

Toby began to nudge the palm of Molly’s hand when it stopped halfway down his back. He then began to mew indignantly when, without warning, she quickly picked him up and unsteadily set him down on the floor.

_Incoming call from: Sherlock Holmes_

God. God. Why was he calling? Was it something to do with the wedding or with his lab results? She didn’t know which one she’d rather hear. Her muscles were suddenly tensing up like a stricken animal, ready to escape from a threatening situation. She considered letting the phone ring to voicemail, but what if she tried to call him back and he wouldn’t pick up?

She swiped the Accept button before she could hesitate any longer and brought the phone to her ear. She forced a swallow down her throat and managed out a, “Hello?”

His response was quick and to the point. “Molly.”

Normally, him saying her name in his deep, silky voice would bring an involuntary shiver down her spine. But now Molly was too caught off guard to even process anything normally. An instinctive smile plastered on her face. “Oh, hi, Sherlock,” she said lightly, as if she was pleasantly surprised with his late-night call.

“What time is it?”

Under the illuminating white kitchen light she clumsily fumbled with her phone, briefly drawing it away from her ear to check and read the glowing screen. As soon as she could, she replied, “It’s half past ten, about.”

“ _No_ ,” came his sharp voice through the other side of the phone. “What time is _it?_ ” Then he gruffly emphasized, “ _It._ ”

Molly closed her eyes and took a deep breath, controlling her hand. She cautiously asked, ready to retreat if necessary, “You mean, the, uh, wedding?”

“That. Yes.”

She couldn’t believe it. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish as she tried to search her brain. “The, um, the ceremony starts around four o'clock.”

“An evening wedding?” He gave a little scoff under his breath. “Predictable choice.”

“Yeah, well…” Still surprised, she drew off before she could begin to ramble.

Sherlock cleared his voice in finality. “Text me the address later. Not too far, I hope. Probably not, though. I’ll pick you up an hour before.”

“Okay, okay,” said Molly, feeling very dazed and even happy all of a sudden, and before she could forget, she swiftly added, “Good, I’ll - I’ll see you then. Good - goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Better eat before the food gets cold,” he advised.

The call ended, leaving Molly staring at the kitchen wall in front of her for a moment as she processed their conversation through her mind and tried to remember what he had said. What a git. But she knew she shouldn’t be upset. Meena would be glad. At least now the weight that Molly had been carrying on her chest all day had vanished. Molly even felt a little lightheaded. She shut off her phone and set it down on the kitchen counter, looking from the pizza to her cat. She reached her arm out and gave him a scratch, and as he began to purr, she started to smile.

 

* * *

 

“I hope I look alright,” sighed Molly. “I should’ve locked you in the bedroom. Too late, now.”

Toby watched from afar as the lint roller slid up and down her back. The dress, sleeveless and a shade of very deep purple, hugged her frame, maybe a bit too tightly under the arms. But she didn’t want to criticize; Meena had given it to her. She tilted her head, adjusting herself in front of her long mirror. She really should’ve broken it in, along with her black heels, but she had bought them last-minute. And whatever, it’d all get looser after a few hours of “sweaty dancing.” Hopefully not. Gosh, what an image.

She jerked when she heard the buzzer go off from the front. It was three o'clock. _Shoot._ He was here _already_.

The lint roller was thrown on the couch, and a black handbag was thrown around her shoulder. After shooing her cat away from her, Molly staggered down the hallway of her flat in her new heels, the sharp _click clack click clack_ on the wooden planks echoing quickly through the empty home.

She finally stumbled towards the buzzer and pressed its button down. For a second she hovered over the buzzer, her thoughts hanging frozen in the air, but she forced herself to speak. “Hello?” she called.

“ _You can come down now. Don’t forget your bag._ ”

Molly looked around for a second, and then she realized her bag was already hanging from her shoulder. He had worried her for no reason. She let out a groan, but a smile quirked at her lips.

“I didn’t,” she told him, a hint of satisfaction in her assurance. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He made a distinct noise of grudging acknowledgement, and then the buzzer clicked off.

The trip down the couple flights of stairs was shaky and hurried, with Molly nearly tripping over her heels once or twice while still trying to keep her dress looking nice by desperately holding on to it. Everything that had happened earlier between her and Sherlock she had pretty much expected — his impertinence, her embarrassment, the bitter disappointment of rejection — but now, she had not an idea of what she was getting into with him. Would he be his usual cold self or actually friendly? Would he stay by himself or stay with her during the event? She didn’t have time to think of more questionable situations because she had just pried open the front door of the building.

A sleek black Mercedes was sitting nonchalantly, its motor on and running, in front at the curb’s edge. Sherlock stood in front of it with his hands cupped behind his back, the door open. He was wearing a suit very similar to the one he wore at John and Mary’s wedding, except this time he had no boutonniere and his tie was the same shade of plum as Molly’s dress. Molly was relieved that he had gotten the memo.

“Yes, I got this from Mycroft,” conceded Sherlock before she could mention a thing about the car. He was squinting through the bright afternoon sun. “Just another one of his many favors that he owes me for doing his menial work for him.”

She slipped into the black leather back seats first, followed by Sherlock beside her after he shut the door behind him. His cologne was soft and fresh, she noticed, as he leaned forward, nearly brushing her, and told the chauffeur the address of the wedding. He fell backwards into his chair with a small sigh as the car started up, and he drew his arm over his shoulder and buckled himself in.

With the seat belt tucked across her and her legs crossed over each other, Molly tried not to look at him at first, but she knew what a bad idea ignoring him for the ride would be.

“Thank you for picking me up,” she hesitantly said, casting a glance over at him.

He had been staring straight ahead like her, but he turned his head and said, “It’s no problem.”

“You look lovely,” she found herself spilling out, “Nice, I mean.”

He did. His suit was sleek and dark, just like his curly, bouncy hair, with a crisp shirt underneath that gleamed white and new. His shoes were polished and had a fragrant, woody smell.

Sherlock blinked and gave a short nod, dutifully accepting her compliment. “Likewise,” he said calmly, with a hint of constrained awkwardness. He shifted in his seat, turning his gaze away from her. His attitude shifted a little.

“That morning in the lab,” he began. “Because of the whole case, my behavior wasn’t quite right.” He slowed down a little as if he was struggling to come up with a presentable string of words. “However, it gave me little reason to be mean, as you told me earlier.”

His throat cleared. “I’m -” the words crumbled out of his mouth, “- sorry.”

Sherlock’s apologies, the few ones that she’d heard, were always _something_.

Molly felt put on the spot with the candidness and solemnness of his apology. “It’s okay,” she squeaked.

As she folded and dug her hands into her lap, Molly felt a smile creep onto her face. It was an embarrassed, little smile, but it was still genuine. He apologized and complimented back to her. She was pleasantly surprised that he was making an effort to be nice, and that was, well, _nice_.

He cleared his throat once more. “You remember Miss Marianne.” His tone was formal. This was his attempt to move into a topic that he had more expertise and familiarity with.

“I do. The woman with, uh, ricin.”

Casting a long look out of the car window, flashes of bright lights and colors steadily zooming by, Sherlock evenly murmured, “You were right.”

She didn’t know why she was even asking when she already knew, but she still went and hesitantly said, “About the bacteria?”

The way he spoke was slow and measured. “Yes.”

Gratification flickered in her chest. She had no idea why she was so influenced by his opinion of her, but it meant that just hearing something _good_ about her from _him_ — a man who preferred not to make personal connections and would rather shut himself in for days on end — made her feel much more _better_. Sherlock was right, too. Words spoke very loudly.

“I’m assuming you’re a bridesmaid, yes?”

Small talk. Small talk was good. Get to know each other a little better. Maybe the ride wouldn’t turn out as badly as she had worried. Shoulders and posture loosening in her seat, she felt herself relaxing more.

“Yes, ah, I am. I had to practice all the procedures. It’s a bit silly, I think, but it all makes for a nice ceremony,” she admitted, revealing a bit of optimism. “Meena, the bride, gave me and all the other bridesmaids this dress to wear. Except the head bridesmaid, her sister, got a more decorated one.” She shot a look down at her plum dress and brushed her hands over the smooth, clean material, softly remarking, “Weddings can be fun.”

“Are you expecting to have fun?”

For a second her schoolgirl crush on him reared its head for the first time in a forever; she pictured him whisking her away from the event so they could be alone together. But then the image of him abandoning her in the middle of the evening blotted out everything else she could think of. Molly ended up letting out a short laugh, quickly thinking up a practical response. “It’s hard not to have fun. There’s music, good food — usually — and there’s friends and nice moments.”

Sherlock hummed as if mulling over the justification she had laid out for him, comparing it with his own negative point of view. He ended up not refuting her reasoning, and instead he levelly settled on, “I’m not really a wedding person myself.”

She wasn’t surprised, but she didn’t want to tell him that. Understandingly, she mildly said, “I get it. It can be a pain to dress up and everything. Several hours of social interaction. Makes you want to go home and pass out after all of it.”

He made a noncommittal grunt, but it seemed his mood had changed, making her doubt her attempt at empathy and wonder whether he was becoming unsettled. She looked over at him, and he was sitting in his seat, face shadowed and turned downwards. Her heart started to thud with concern for him, more than for herself, and she slipped out and asked him, “Did you really want to come?”

Sherlock turned to her, and for an instant his previously-blank expression looked as if it was drowned in thought. He was considering her question, she realized, and perhaps considering whether he should tell the truth or not. It was a long gap of silence, in which she held her brown gaze on his fine face, and then it was broken, like an arrow splitting the air, when he spoke.

“Yes, and no.” His answer was quiet.

Her mind stumbled. What?

One would have immediately expected him to dive head-first into an ocean of introspective thinking, backed by a winded explanation involving complex variables, but the consulting detective simply said, “I didn’t want to come for the wedding. I wanted to come for you.”

A wave of many, many different emotions, impossible to tell apart, washed over Molly. In the rumbling car she sat there, flushed and breathless, waiting for the moment to pass. She was rising up, up, up, and she finally surfaced.

It was funny how much easier it was to breathe around someone after finding out that they actually liked you as a person.

Who knew how much of what Sherlock said was true? But it all definitely felt realistic enough when he held the car door open for her when the car arrived and parked in front of the wedding venue. He helped her get out, hand gently and briefly taking hers when she reached out for support. He even darted back into the car when she remembered that she had left her bag resting in the back seats. Despite her embarrassment, she laughed, genuinely, when he mimicked, “ _Don’t forget your bag,_ ” just as he did when he had picked her up.

Her ever-present part of herself, the part built out of doubts and insecurities, told her that he was just being polite, that he was just doing this out of guilt, but there was no hint of politeness nor guilt when she watched him wolf down two slices of triple chocolate cake. He did, however, politely and guiltily accept her napkin to wipe his mouth right after. But it was clear that he was actually enjoying being her date at the wedding.

While she had sat in the front row of the church with the other bridesmaids during the ceremony and had joined the other bridesmaids in photographs, he hung off to the side with the rest of the crowd, even if he was not particularly _in_ it. When she was not busy with her duties, Molly would throw a hasty look in his direction, and being Sherlock, he instantly read it and reacted in various manners accordingly. He’d frown jokingly — or maybe not — at “ _boooring_ ” parts, but sometimes, at random points during the day, he’d actually, _actually_ smile — including when she tried and failed to catch the bouquet — and Molly would do the same to him. Maybe they were wrong about earlier. Maybe actions spoke just as loudly as words, for their wordless exchanges always brightened her up more. Surely Sherlock felt the same way.

She knew it was not only her who frequently felt embarrassed and alienated from other people. She had known it when Sherlock vanished the night of John and Mary’s wedding, and she knew it tonight at Danny and Meena’s wedding. During the reception, as Molly sat next to him, she noticed his uneasy fidgeting when everyone around was talking and laughing and his flashes of irritation when someone would try to converse with him for longer than a minute.

However, he seemed to ease up when Molly would bend over and whisper something, be it a dry joke or a helpful tidbit of information. Molly sometimes got up and went over to chat with old friends, so Sherlock would just stay put in his chair, head down and typing on his phone. Yet he’d always look up and put aside his phone when she came back. Molly got the hint that he was at least _somewhat_ reliant on her during the night, so after a few rounds of catching-up conversations with her friends, she decided to stay by Sherlock and keep him company. He received her presence welcomingly, and for a large part of the night the two of them sat at their table, abandoned of its other diners, as the night continued on and the music grew louder. With empty plates, half-filled champagne glasses, and dying candles scattered in front of them, Sherlock would lazily examine other wedding guests and deduce their backgrounds, and Molly would gasp in surprise, snigger at a mistake, or whisper, “Shut up!” But he didn’t shut up, and Molly didn’t complain as they both tried to hide their laughter into the drinks.

“Molly!” came a shout through the pumping dance music. “And this is Sherlock?”

Molly glanced up, seeing Meena standing breathless and happy in front of them. Breaking into a wide beam, Molly loudly greeted,  “Meena, hey!” She jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around her friend, briefly squeezing her close and then drawing away for her.

Meena looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table and probably studying her up. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said to him, “From Molly and from the telly.” She flashed a smile and held out her hand.

Sherlock stood up politely, taking her hand and shaking it. “Good, but mostly bad things, I presume?” he coolly said.

Meena laughed, eyeing Molly playfully. “You know it.”

Molly shot a pretend guilty look back and forth between Meena and Sherlock. Then she smiled and asked, “How’s the wedding going so far?”

Meena chuckled. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? But great. Danny’s great, everyone’s great. Ceremony went perfectly. You don’t know how much I want to thank you.” Her hand landed on Molly’s shoulder and shook her gently. “I’m glad you two could come, though! Afraid you wouldn’t be able to come initially, Sherlock.”

“There are worse things to be afraid of.” His mouth twisted upwards at the ends.

“Isn’t there?” Meena laughed. “I bet you’ve seen a _lot_ as a detective. Murders and whatnot. You’ll have to tell me all about them sometime, but I’m not gonna keep you and Molly-girl here hanging. I have to check back on Danny, so I’ll see you both later. Go dance or something!” She gave them both a hearty pat on the back and then she was off and away, mingling with other people as she went.

Molly was left standing awkwardly there with Sherlock. Dancing? Molly felt a light blush creep onto her cheeks. It was as if her friend had suggested something completely outrageous, elicit even. But dancing? Sure, she and Sherlock were _friends_ , in some technical sense, but she didn’t know if helping someone fake their death qualified dancing as acceptable. Hell, even if he was her actual _date_ she wouldn’t be surprised if dancing, to him, was unthinkable.

She swallowed, trying to still herself. Maybe she should ask him. She had gotten this far. She wasn’t the timid, shy Molly she had been a few years ago. She was different from the Molly that had first met Sherlock, who had winced at his words and tripped over her own. And possibly, just like her, Sherlock had changed.

“Do you -” she turned around to him, heart beating in her chest, “- want to go dance?”

When Sherlock took her hand into his, she felt like she was suddenly floating. Like a fairytale, he guided her onto the dancefloor, gliding past the other pairs that stepped smoothly back and forth in time with the steady, rocking music of the live band.

He was tall and she was short, but he adjusted for the height difference by lowering one hand down to the small of her back. His hand pressed lightly, with just a touch of warmth, against the fabric of her dress, making sure Molly didn’t move too far out of his reach, but still giving a modest distance between. His other hand continued to hold her much smaller one, not squeezing too strongly or too softly. With all this, he led her and she followed him in a small, fluid circle around the darkened dance floor, lit up by the variety of colored, patterned dance lights.

Molly looked up, watching as the colors danced off his face. Her hand rested gently on his broad shoulder, and he seemed not a bit bothered by it. Gazing over her shoulder he looked calm, if not enjoying himself.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” she said in a tone that was asking for an explanation.

He didn't give her one. “I can.”

Of course he did. He was a genius detective. What couldn’t he do? Molly smiled to herself. Actually, a lot. But he still surprised her.

With a flourish, Sherlock rose his arm and gave her a quick twirl. Molly fell back closer to him, their chests not touching but still close enough that she felt that he could sense her racing heartbeat.

“Does this beat chasing criminals around right now?” she asked.

Begrudging amusement colored his voice. She liked how warm and low it was, too. “Not really. But it’s an attempt I’ll accept.”

For the rest of the song, and the ones after that, they were mostly wordless, hearing nothing but the music and the pounding of blood in their ears, but sometimes one of them made a random comment that the other one would grin at. And sometimes, as they danced closely together, their clothes would rub up against one another, and it would make Molly freeze, but not for long. Sherlock’s presence was magnetic, and soon enough the two of them moved together as one.

Molly’s cheek ended up resting on his chest, pressed against the lapel of his warm, soft suit coat. Her eyes, heavy with content, were lulled closed, but she could feel Sherlock moving slower and steadier. Her fuzzy mind wondered how much physical touch he had felt in a long time, but it was as if he instinctively knew what to do. His one hand holding hers dropped down to his other hand, and for one song they danced like that, his arms wrapped around her waist and hers around his neck.

Molly’s thoughts were still on that single dance, their last one before he got her off the dance floor, as she sat silently in the dark, cool car with him returning home. The ride was uneventful and quiet besides the hushed sounds of the bright city outside their windows.  It drifted by like a dream, one that she couldn’t believe happened and one that she didn’t want to end. When the car finally stopped at her home, she got out on her own, telling Sherlock it was okay to just stay put and thanking him for coming with her that night. As she unlocked the front door, the back window of the car rolled down.

“Don’t forget your bag.”

Molly ran back to the car, and their faces met through the window.


End file.
